Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. With three little kids and almost 13 years of marriage, I’m just hoping hubs will come home from work and sing something romantic to me.

“Let’s go Outback to-niiiight!”

Curbside takeaway=porn for moms. Aim high. (I know. How greedy of me to hope for more after the promise of microwave slippers a few weeks ago. Don’t get all jealous, ladies. It’s not a good look!)

Hey, we can’t ALL live at Downton Abbey. My cook and lady maid are on extended vacay. Listen, we all have to play the hand we’re dealt! (Sometimes you get to frolic upstairs at Downton and eat with 27 silver utensils, sometimes you have to stir soup downstairs, and sometimes you’re stuck in suburgatory!) I’m not an addict.

With arctic temps and over two feet of snow dumped on us this past weekend, it’s no shock my Valentine and I have our biggest rows over the thermostat. You’d think the muffin top would insulate but nooooo. Irish McFreezypants had to marry a hot blooded Italian who wears t-shirts inside the house in winter and fans himself with all the dramatics of a strange southern debutante with a Boston accent, “I’m sweeeeltahring!”

I’m sorry, Scahlett O’Hah-ra. Jeez. Since I’m shuffling about like a 4 foot kid from A Christmas Story, I’m not sympathetic!

So imagine my delight when I got the chance to review a Honeywell Energy Smart 360 Surround heater—just in time for the most wonderful time of the year! Along with mah gift of extra, energy efficient warmth, I received the following info which, I believe, demonstrates I am NOT the cray cray one in this house!

JUDGE AND JURY, I REST MY CASE!

MMM HMM. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

I have to say this is a great little ceramic heater. It’s perfect to put under my desk by my feet while I work on my next book read Peep, and in our playroom which is often chilly since it abuts the non-heated garage–and it’s lightweight enough with convenient carrying handle to tote wherever my muffin top desires! It’s super quiet so it will not disturb any important Mario Kart racing, Lord Grantham viewing, or wine slurping. It has a wonderful control panel allowing you to adjust the temperature depending on how Christmas Story-ish you’re feeling, and how energy conscious you are! (Hey super duper green peeps, tada! You can pre-program the thermostat and even see how much energy you’re using with this heater.) This heater packs a punch as it can blast heat all the way around–hence the 360– or you can just use the 180 for a more targeted effect, and has excellent safety features like an overheat protection device, so you don’t burn the joint down! Bonus! (No really. Remember when Italian boy almost burned the house down thawing a pipe last year?)

Here’s what this little beauty looks like in real life—so you can see the scale:

SEE? TOTALLY COMPACT AND UNOBTRUSIVE!

Good news, m’ ladies (and m’ cold lords), you too can have a chance to experience this gem. Honeywell has graciously offered to send a heater to one lucky, soon to be toasty roasty, muffintopmommy reader. All you have to do is leave a comment with your name, and we will have a super official drawing—probably someone under 8 years old will pick a name out of a mixing bowl. You don’t even have to subscribe to mah blog, like me on Facebook, leave a blood sample, follow me on twitter, Pinterest, or the grocery store! (But I surely love when you do— minus the grocery store stalking–I don’t need you seeing the processed snacks in my cart!) Please enter here by next Monday, February, 18th by midnight. South Floridians need not apply. (I’m kidding! I know it gets like 45 down there at 2 in the morning once a year, you lovelies!). Heaters can be shipped to U.S. addresses only.

So what are you waiting for? Even if you don’t win, microwave slippers and a fabulous portable heater? For $59.99, or roughly the price of a Lands’ End sweater, you’re totally in biz. Visit www.kaz.com for more information on this and other Honeywell heaters.

Stay warm, muffintoppers!

*Honeywell did provide me with a free heater for review purposes. All opinions expressed are 100% my own. As usual. Ahem.

I’m not the first to blog about this. And in truth, this post is an extension of something I wrote a few years ago but never published. But now? Things are worse and I am more weary. More jaded. More aggravated.

Social media, my happy place–my daily escape, my window to the world (Shut up. I know I need to get out more.) isn’t even safe anymore! If I see one more snarky political comment on Facebook or twitter, Imma explode. Implode? I’m going to lose my shit. There. I said it. See what happens when you push the muffin top?

I love my country. I want what’s best for it. I’m a big fan of snark! Huge! BUT….we’ve reached saturation, doncha think? And to that end, I can only surmise things need to change. There is a lack of basic civility surrounding politics, and it starts from the top down. Or maybe the bottom up? Politicians don’t seem to work together for the common good–they all seem to have their own agenda, most of which involves power, imo. I guess if we’re being honest, that’s not so new. You can only have it your way at Burger King, you douche canoes!

We are all entitled to our beliefs—-that’s the very best thing about our country, in my opinion. And because these beliefs are personal–it can seem “personal” when they–our beliefs– and by extension, WE, are attacked. But. But! Now more than ever, citizens can and do hide behind computer screens and hurl nasty insults toward strangers and friends alike. Instead of healthy discourse it reads more like a food fight. Or a sucker punch. A hit and run even. Don’t we all deserve better? Can’t we DO better? Is this the best example to set for our kids? That when we disagree with someone, it’s okay to call them names and even bully them? Would you walk up to a stranger or an acquaintance at a cocktail party/soccer game/Cracker Barrel and call them a dummy? A warmonger? A hippie freak?

RIP CIVILITY.

Will that really help them to try to understand your point of view?

Before the debate started the other night, I wrote this on my muffintopmommy page on Facebook:

I really wish Andy Cohen could moderate the prez debate tonight. We could drink every time Barack says “moving forward” and Mitt says “deficit”. (Scratch that. Getting your stomach pumped at the ER when you’re a grown up is a no no.)

He could ask Mitt pressing questions like what would Ann do if he took a call in a vineyard away from the table and started speaking Italian? He could ask Barack if he’s ever done a back flip in the White House foyer and chipped a tooth while he and Michelle had company.

Really. We need to inject a little humor into this whole thing. We needs some MAZEEELLLLL!

Honestly? I was only half kidding. We can kill each other….or we can laugh about it and try to figure out a better way.

Regardless of where your political loyalties lie, chances are, first and foremost, your loyalties lie with your family. Let’s face it, the guys down in Washington—are mostly a bunch of schmucks. Democrat, Republican….I don’t think it really matters. See, I’m thinking, the gig’s about up. I’m onto them. While they wine and dine with lobbyists, with who knows what agenda, we’re at home, putting the interests of our families first. When they make decisions about this country’s future, are they considering the best interests of our collective families?

We have runaway spending while our roads crumble and schools falter and the suits point fingers and posture for the cameras. They get all shouty and start wagging their extremities. Nobody will cop to doing or saying anything wrong. No one will EVER just say, “I’m sorry” and ask for forgiveness when they mess up. No one collaborates–they obfuscate. It’s their way or nuthin’. Come on, you know their moms taught them better than that. How can you fix something when no one will admit it’s broken or offer any viable solutions?

TELL THE TRUTH! SAY YOU’RE SORRY WHEN YOU EFF SHIT UP. IS THAT SO HARD?????

Sorry. Sorry. I’m shouting. See? See? They’re doing it to me!

It’s time to start a revolution. The answer is clear. It’s time for mommies to take Washington, if only temporarily to show them how it’s done. Face it, we’re always on borrowed time. We can’t be lifers in Washington. Our families need us. But I contend that if we went down there for even a few weeks, the difference would be palpable and we could solve most of what ails our beloved country.

We’re fierce negotiators, even among the toughest of adversaries who can be, ahem, petulant and irrational at times (sound familiar politicians?). We balance strict budgets, work under severe time constraints, and arrive on schedule with our homework in hand. Our work ethic is unparalleled, as we are accustomed to working hours on end with no breaks, and no complaints. (Okay, maybe a few complaints. We’re moms not martyrs.) We juggle kids, jobs, homework, cooking, cleaning, shuttling and scheduling, and we do it all with a smile. Or a smirk. Maybe a few swears under our breath. But let’s not split hairs now. We teach our kids to play nice in the sandbox and it’s about time some of that is done in our nation’s capitol!

DON'T JUDGE ME BY MY APPEARANCE. I HAVE A LOT OF GREAT IDEAS! I WORK WELL WITH OTHERS! I'M KIND! I WILL OFFER YOU BOOZE AND PARTY SNACKS WHILE WE FIGURE SHIT OUT!

Just in my group of friends alone, we are or once were, sales people, educators, doctors, lawyers, nurses, real estate professionals, computer specialists and money managers. We come from all walks of life, and from different political parties. We don’t agree on everything, but we agree on one thing. The future success of this country depends on our ability to keep our future generations in mind, our kids and our kid’s kids. If given the chance, we mommies could solve our education, healthcare, housing, defense and infrastructure problems, balance the budget and maybe even have homemade cupcakes on everyone’s desk by month’s end. Okay, maybe that’s optimistic, especially if I’m baking, but admit it, it’s not the craziest idea I’ve ever had, is it?

So remember a few weeks ago when I said I feel like a biggity buzz kill sometimes, but I would not not not inflict my thoughts on my kids? I vowed to let them go and watch them fly.

As it turns out, surprise! My six year old really seems to dig math. I figured this out over the course of the year and his teacher confirmed it. Good for him! So when a form came home asking if we wanted to sign him up for something called “Math Superstars”, which is just a few sheets of extra math homework per week, I leapt at the chance for him to math it up.

Now, I wasn’t a horrible math student, but I had to work really hard for average grades, and I despised it like Ohio State hates Michigan, like Carol Brady hated kids playing ball in the house, like muffin top hates swimsuits. With the exception of tying for first place in the multiplication table contest with a smartypants in third grade, I was no standout. (Did I mention the prize was a trip out for an ice cream sundae with the teacher? Ladies and gentlemen, meet Pavlov, the accidental mathematician!)

Yes, yes I do.

Science and I–which sometimes seemed like thinly veiled math—were hardly bff’s either, but at least in science you could blow stuff up and learn to be grateful for the geniuses responsible for me being able to drive over bridges to fun vacation spots without plunging to my death—-go Physics!). Only because I was a motivated student kind ofa nerd who went to a free math SAT prep class after school, did I actually manage to get a better score on my math SAT’s than my English. (You’re the man, Mr. Sweeney!) I’m not sure who that probably surprised more—my math teachers or my English teachers. Regardless, besides balancing my checkbook (and by balancing, I mean going online to see what’s what and making sure I didn’t blow the mortgage at Tarjay) and figuring out important math problems in my head (If the shoes are $59.99 and they are 40% off, how much are they? A great fracking deal!) I’ve steered mostly clear of math the past few decades.

I figured my kids’ math homework might stump me eventually, but I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I’m not going to lie to you. Some of the Math Superstar problems are hurting my head.

Example:

Five scarecrows had a candy corn eating contest.

Ben ate the most candy corns.

Jen ate more than Len.

Jen ate less than Ken.

Zen ate less than Len.

Write the scarecrows’ names in order to show how much candy corn they ate.

My son and I figured it out together but dude, this is why English people shouldn’t do math. My brain was whizzing. Why are scarecrows eating candy corn? They’re fake. Most scarecrows are badly dressed dudes, so what is Jen wearing? Not faded overalls and bad plaid I hope! And Jen ate more crap candy than two dudes–I wonder if she has a scarecrow muffin top? And anyway, who names their scarecrow Zen? Is Zen a Buddhist scarecrow? Isn’t it bad karma for Zen to try to scare away crows, who are gifts of nature, and overeat candy?

Moving on to exhibit B:

There are 3 children and 1 wagon ( I wanted so badly to scratch out the 3 and the 1 and write out three and one instead!). Two children can play at a time. One child can ride and one child can pull. In the table, show all the ways the children can ride and pull. (Then there is one column for child riding and one for child pulling.)

Well, this is a dumbass question. You know damn right well the one kid who doesn’t get a turn is going to be whining/crying/pitching a shit fit screeching, “When is it myyyyyyy turn? Is it myyyyyyyy turn yet?” You know the kid pulling is going to pull the wagon too fast, and you know that wagons were not designed by the smart bridge Physicists/Engineers because the damn things suck at hairpin turns. So you gotta figure the rider is getting dumped out onto the pavement. So that leaves two kids crying, pitching a shit fit, and one kid remaining. The one kid remaining will demand his turn from the whinybags who are crying, but the two cryers won’t want to pull him so he’ll start wailing, too.

Let’s review, mathletes: that leaves three kids crying, after only one turn. So that leaves 5 different turn combinations to go, math geniuses? I don’t think so. I’m calling bullshit on your fuzzy math. Meanwhile, the mom who sent the three to play with the wagon is cursing under her breath and counting the minutes til happy hour–she knew it was a stupid ass idea in the first place.

You can be all Big Bang Theory Sheldon smart, but you can’t check your common sense at the door, son!

Finally? This one:

Teaka finishes dinner at 6 o’clock. She reads her book for 2 (t-w-o, mathletes, two!) hours. Then she goes to bed. Draw the hour and the minute hands on the clock to show when Teaka goes to bed.

Okay. But first….what book was Teaka reading? Is Teaka a kid or a grown up? This might help me guess what book. After she puts her book down, does she brush her teeth? Floss? Check her email? Balance her checkbook *cough*? Do some push ups? Write in her diary! Ooh! Check Facebook? Twitter? Pin some shit on Pinterest? Does she really go right to bed? I know you’re thinking the answer is 8 o’clock, but I find that hard to believe, frankly. But with no further information, I was forced to watch 6 year old put 8 on the little clock, but I do not feel good about it. At all. Because again? I have to call bullshit on the math superstars for leaving out pertinent info!

But I will hold my tongue. I will let him go. And I will watch him fly.

This is my brain on math and science.

As my brain explodes. (At what velocity and force, I really don’t know. I was probably talking about 90210 that day in Physics.)

I have no formal training–I’m left totally to my own devices. I don’t have enough time to complete my tasks and I’m woefully undercompensated. My under aged staff is completely uncooperative, thwarts my efforts, and asks for way too many snack breaks.

I’m talking about the housekeeping aspect of my current gig as a mom.

Let me be frank: I suck at it. (Don’t you find brutal honesty refreshing? Sorry mom, while you forbade me to say ‘sucks’ while under your roof, you also told me to always tell the truth. I believe that’s called a ‘quandary’.)

If it were my professional job, I’d definitely get written up. But since I spoon with the only other grown up in charge of this joint, there are never any real consequences, except for my own feelings of housekeeper inadequacy, or, as I prefer to say, ‘inadequas housekeeperis’. It’s the new Latin for, “You suck so bad at cleaning, no one would even hire you to clean for free!”

See, when I decided to stay home with my kids and quit my job, I decided I couldn’t justify paying for a cleaning woman when I was making zeros dineros. I figured, big deal, I’d be home, I could just do it. Well, that was before I realized little urchins would try to swim in the toilet as I cleaned it, eat crumbs from the dustpan as I swept, and hang on the vacuum and chomp on the cord. For real, people!

That’s when I proclaimed, “To hell with it! I’ll do it at night when they’re sleeping!”

And then? A little American Idol here, some blogging there, and the house, well, let’s just say it probably wasn’t the best sign when I started naming the dust bunnies. But yo, check it out—I finally got my girls. Mm hmm. (What? I’m not crazy. No, I’m not!)

I wonder if my cleaning woman knows I miss her so. (Do you think she misses me? Yeah, $90 every other week says probably not.) I keep hoping Santa will bring her back to me, but I guess I’ve just been too naughty. (Okay, get your mind out of the gutter. This is muffintopmommy, not Harlequin.)

Anyway, ‘hem, I keep threatening to form a cleaning union, but frankly, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination. I can’t even be passionate about my plight because I despise it so. I actually have friends who ENJOY cleaning. I do. I have it in writing and I’m not afraid to expose them. You know who you are, you sickos!

To me, enjoying cleaning something is just unfathomable. You might as well tell me you dig having pap smears, doing your taxes or running into your old nemesis–who is skinnier and better looking than ever. Come on now! I simply don’t believe you. I don’t.

I would rather shot gun a bottle of Lysol instead of clean with it.

Hello poison control? Please stand by…..

Due to me being completely useless as a “homemaker” (Btw, what in the name of popcorn does that term mean anyway? Kind of overstating your ability there June Cleaver and the gang. You made your home my ass. Like you built the thing from scratch in that ridonkulous get up, sporting your pearls while you vacuum–it’s because of YOU I’m now inadequate–wet Swiffering only when completely necessary in my XL Merona sweats!)

What?

Gimme a break. Someone needed to say it. June set us all up to fail. And we think show nowadays are unrealistic? Bottom line: my home looks like a cyclone hit it some days and probably sounds like it, too.

Bite me, June.

SEE WHAT I MEAN? SEE! SEE! SHOWOFF!

I should clarify I do have some pride as my home is really more cluttery than dirty–even I have my standards. Between the toys and books and shoes and everyday junk it just sort of spirals at times. Now my husband—he seems to have higher standards than I, and has little appreciation for the squalor in which we currently live. (Probably watching too many reruns of the Beav. But fricking Ward only worked like 9 to 5 and had a five minute commute. Screw those Cleavers! I should also remind the hubs they shacked in twin beds.)

I rest my case.

Like many hubs, I know he understands my primary goal is to take care of our kids, not our toilets. He definitely maybe knows I don’t sit around eating Bon Bons all day. (I don’t even know what a Bon Bon is–why are moms always accused of sitting around chowing on them? If I’m gonna nosh on anything all day, it ain’t gonna be no random Bon Bon. Salty snacks or bust, baby!)

No, he realizes I’m busy as a short order cook, bottle washer, tush wiper, clothing outfitter/laundress, grocery schlepper, driver extraordinaire, martyr! This, when I’m not reading to them, helping select their favorite on demand tv shows, Tarjay-ing, slurping coffee, and Facebooking. BUSY, BUSY, BUSY! Take that, June! I mean, honestly, without Facebook, twitter, online shopping, talk shows and Tarjay runs, no wonder June had nothing better to do than vac in pearls. And everyone knows moms back then trapped their kids in baby jail aka ‘play pens’. (Um, hello, pen…as in…penitentiary?) I actually let my kids out of the confines of an indoor four foot by four foot fencing and do stuff with them, June. I, and society, prefer to give them the benefit of the doubt before we send them down river to the clink.

The hubs does help with the cleaning, but he has no more free time than I do. But every now and then he’ll have a relative shit fit about the condition of our home, stomp his foot, and beg me to hire a cleaning woman.

Then I get on my dusty soapbox and say, “Listen moneybags, while this would thrill me to no end since I am the unfortunate one who cleans the toilets, how can we justify it when we’re on one salary? I feel like if we can find the money for that, then we should save it for something else, because we’re certainly not swimming in it!” At our fictitious summer home…sigh…pass me my Dunks coffee please….cream, one sugar.

“But hon, seriously. We have NO time to clean. I honestly think my throat is scratchy from all the dust. And think about the kids’ rooms–how much cleaner the air would even be!” He’s pulling out all the stops now—hitting below the belt saying even our AIR is dirty! And bringing the kids breathing into it, like I don’t have enough mothers’ guilt between on demand cable and cheap produce that isn’t organic!! Now I have visions of them gasping for breath during nap time. If I can’t clean hard surfaces adequately, how am I gonna clean AIR?

“Listen, I just don’t think this is in our budget right now. What don’t you understand?” We live in New Hampshire, not Fantasy Island, dear. Da plane? Not coming.

“We can swing it. We can. We’ll just get take out less.” Gasp! Does he NOT even know me? The husband giveth, but the husband taketh away? I beg your pardon, mtm don’t play that way! I’d rather scrub a nasty toilet used for potty training than lose my one true love, red chicken curry and siam rolls! It’s time to play hardball.

“Ok. You really want a cleaning lady? Which would you like to give up? Food or clothes?”

“Fine, Janet, you win.” I win? Kind of a hollow victory there, husband, when I walk away STILL having to clean wretched toilets, used mostly by people with “peanuts”, in the five minutes of spare time I currently have. Oooh Bob Barker, what do I win next? The chance to clean out the gutters? Yeah, let’s spin that wheel.

If he ever calls my bluff, btw, I’m thinking we’ll give up food, because then we’d look better in our clothes. Really, since I’m the lucky one who pays the bills (Another brilliant move…put the English major in charge of the finances…we are so never affording that fancy assisted living with the open bar. Damn.) that usually ends the debate until the next round of dust bunnies make their appearance.

At which point, I’m gonna put my feet up, turn up the volume on Idol and say, “Great to have you back, girls!”

LADIES AND GENTS, TWEEPS AND PEEPS, THIS IS THE SAILBOAT I SHALL ALLOW MY SONS TO CAPTAIN!

IN 1492 (an excerpt)

“In fourteen hundred ninety-two
Columbus sailed the ocean blue.

He had three ships and left from Spain;
He sailed through sunshine, wind and rain.

He sailed by night; he sailed by day;
He used the stars to find his way.

A compass also helped him know
How to find the way to go.

Ninety sailors were on board;
Some men worked while others snored.”

Disclaimer: I might catch flak for this. I try not to be all judgy about how other people parent as I’m quite certain I’ve made my share of mistakes and I’ve only been one for five years….but I have to ask the question: Who the hell lets their 16 year old daughter sail around the world?

Alone.

Um, yeah. Apparently some wing nuts from the OC.

I mean, dude. Don’t they know Christopher Columbus had like 90 guys with him when he was sailing around like a badass? (Granted, some of them were snoozing…and they say people don’t have a work ethic nowadays!) And he was just trying to go grab up some gold and go–he wasn’t trying to be a big showoff and circumnavigate the world!

Technology and boats have come a long way since 1492 when CC relied on the big dipper, but the ocean is still a mighty beast. One rogue wave (which happened to sailor girl) and you’re swimming with the fishes for real. Mother Nature can be cruel and unforgiving, and if you don’t believe it, go talk to the poor widows of seasoned fishermen and sailors who got swallowed by the sea faster than a WT guy in a wife beater can inhale a $5 footlong at Wal-Mart Subway. (Gotta do somthin’ while his baby mama shops for Cheez Doodles and Moutain Dew.) Um, but I digress!

I mean, do I admire this girl for her passion, determination, and mental fortitude? I do. She’s got pluck. She’ll be an interesting person to watch. Her life story will be fascinating, no doubt, if this is what she’s gunning for at 16. I rather doubt she’ll ever be asking anyone if they “want fries with that?”

But what she couldn’t have? The judgment and the life experience of an adult.

And any adult should realize that. Her parents are lucky the French and Australian governments, who apparently racked up huge expenses funding jets and diverting boats to rescue her when her mast snapped from a horrible storm in the Indian Ocean, have been gracious and have no plans to send them some honking bill.

But really they’re just lucky she didn’t die. Or that none of the rescuers died as a result of their poor judgment and arrogance.

I have to wonder, is this an extreme version of parents (Dad is a shipwright and owns a yacht management company)trying to live vicariously through their kids, or gain notoriety through their kids? Just last year, this girl’s older brother successfully did sail around the world. When is enough, enough? I mean, I thought the hockey dads could be batshit crazy, but nope, we have a winner here!

Not to mention, this girl is a high school junior. Shouldn’t she be screeching at Eclipse with her friends? Shopping for a prom dress? And no texting, no twitter, no Facebook? For months! She probably doesn’t even know who won American Idol! No Gossip Girl? No One Tree Hill? No Justin Bieber jokes to keep her going? Does she even know Albie might get tossed from Fordham Law and Ashley got booted from home?

What am I missing?

This was her dream? Really? Couldn’t wait til she was a legal adult of 18? Sorry….I ain’t buying what she and her fam dam are selling.

What do you think?

In the meantime, to the parents of Abby Sunderland…..you get the STFU Friday sammie!! (To be consumed on land only per order of muffintopmommy law!)

Dorothy, this ain't Kansas. But wait, is this big ass tree going to keep me from Facebooking?

This has to be payback. You know, for my letter to the weathernerd last month. (Click here if you missed it–it wasn’t, um, complimentary.)

Well, weathernerd struck again, and this time? Oh, he brought his A game, the rat bastard.

So, what I heard him say on the forecast yesterday morning was something like this, “Blah blah, a few inches of rain, a few inches of snow, blabbity blabbity, look at my FANCY map.” Insert cheesy knowing grin, clear throat for good measure and…..TADA!

So I’m minding my own biz last night, crafting a new blog post, Facebooking (Where I joked about building an ark and escaping with some smut mags and booze on the muffintopmommy page– but son of a bitch, there just wasn’t enough time! I swear Noah had a serious head’s up.), twittering, and enjoying me some Olympic figure skating when….BOOM! The windows start shaking, wicked rain beats the house at a 90 degree angle, and the lights start flickering. I mean, it sounds all kinds of freaky like I’ve never heard it before. If I had been sitting in Kansas and not New Hampshire, I’m pretty sure I would have sprinted for the basement. (Maybe…if I were a little faster. And…if the basement had adult seating. And…if my arse wasn’t glued to the leather loveseat like a hungry college boy to a free buffet.)

The lights flicker again, and the hubs and I share a knowing look (and reflexively bolt to the thermostat and jack the heat up) and sigh, all “What what?” because, for once, it’s warm out. (And by warm I mean, like in the 30′s at night in New Hampshire in Februrary…a few more degrees and I’m totally rocking happy hour on the deck in some fleece.)

Hubs heads to bed, smart enough to realize it might be a long night. I press on with my regularly scheduled activties. Sure enough, part way through my blog post, right after souless, skimpy Cleopatra’s skating routine, the house goes completely dark. I’ve only the glow of my no longer connected to the internet laptop (so long, mommy’s playdate) and the flashlight my brilliant husband left by my side to guide me.

“Seriously!?” I shout to no one.

See, usually this nonsense happens when it’s like 3 degrees out and there’s a vicious ice storm that weighs down the trees, which knock down the power wires, which….render us all Little House on the Prairie, minus the coping skills and that crafty Charles. Last time Mother Nature showed us who’s boss it was December of 2008. Eight months pregnant, with a 3 year old, a not yet two year old, no power, no heat and no cell connection—no, it did not make for a pretty scene. Hubs thought he saved the day by booking a room for us at a local well known chain hotel so once he got home from work, we blasted five miles over there practically crying for a hot shower. We pull up, and the hotel is completely shrouded in darkness.

“And how exactly does this help me?” I screech.

Hell hath no fury like an 8 month hungry, dirty, caffeine and booze deprived pregnant lady. I told the hotel that they– and their 1-800 schmucks down in Alabama or wherever we called (somewhere warm, damnit, I know it was somewhere warm) to make our FAUX reservation of a room with light and heat– could bite my back fat because I could go back to my own dark house and sleep for free, bitches! After setting hotel chain straight, things went decidedly downhill as there was not a hotel room to be found in all of southern New Hampshire. For real. From there to the state border and beyond, not.a.room. Seriously? Mary and Joseph might have had an easier time finding a place to squat for the night. Okay, maybe not. (But ridic or not, in a moment of woe is me pity party, the thought did cross my mind. I know, what a whiny bag.) I realized while we sat smugly on our hotel rez all day, others in the area booked reservations at hotels that actually HAD power. None of our friends had power, our nearest relative was 40 minutes away and had no power, and, the highlight of an already fantastic day…. one year old booted up his Mickey D’s dinner all over me. Yup. Is there anything hotter than a puke covered, unshowered, 8 month pregnant woman waddling out of Mickey D’s?

Mother Nature broke me that night. I admit it. When we drove out of Mickey D’s with no place to stay, I started to cry. A little, tiny bit. Just as I hit rock bottom, the phone rang, and it was our in law’s saying they just got their power back. Phew! Who but family would take in a motley crew of pukers and dirty birds?

So, here I sit, over a year later. It’s been over twenty four hours, and still no power at home. It’s not freezing. I’m puke free. I’m not pregnant and exhausted. Yes, downed trees impede travel and progress all over my town. Something is hanging from the side of my roof and a section of picket fence litters my yard.

I’ve even seen a few huge pines on people’s homes. So it doesn’t really seem that big a deal that I got woken up by 2 year old last night, complaining it was “dark” because his night light was out. (And btw, how can the “dark” wake my kids? What about that makes any sense?) Weekend plans had to get shuffled around. Stuff will get patched up. Life goes on. But livin’ on the Prairie ain’t easy……so we had to escape for warmer, brighter digs…with free internet and unlimited refills. And while we appreciate that there’s room in the inn again, I realize as much as I rant about it, I miss the frat house already!